


What to Do When the Safehouse Burns

by Kathar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cabin Fic, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, PWP, hypothermia (alleged), minor Jasper Sitwell, minor Natasha Romanov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:43:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of their strength, their safehouse compromised, frozen, lost, and out of contact with SHIELD, Clint Barton and Phil Coulson broke into an isolated cabin in order to survive. That was last night. </p><p>This morning, extraction is the last thing on Clint's mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What to Do When the Safehouse Burns

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out as a refresher after finishing a long story with jillions of characters, too much plot, too many settings, and complications everywhere. 
> 
> This is the polar opposite of that. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, are owed to my fabulous beta, especially for helping wrangle the structure into something readable.

"Barton, you jackass, where the hell have you guys been? Why didn't you contact us before?"

Clint pulled away from the satellite phone for a brief moment, the better to give it the hairy eyeball. A half hour spent fixing the damn thing, a precious thirty minutes outside of his warm nest of blankets, and this was how it repaid him?

"Aw, Sitwell, you didn't have to wait up on account of us."

"Clint. You're not at the safehouse." That was Natasha in her very best _stop fucking around before I cut off your fingers voice._

"Safehouse was compromised," he gritted out. "Had to go further than we expected."

"Are you in shelter now?" Natasha asked, over the top of Sitwell's inquiry about what he meant by "compromised."

"Yes, Nat. For a broad definition of 'shelter,' anyway. We found a cabin...thing." Clint answered her first, running a hand over the back of his neck as he remembered how pathetically glad they'd been to see the snow-encrusted roof poking out of the trees the previous night. "And I mean the safehouse doesn't exist anymore, Sitwell. It burnt down."

"How? Who-"

"No one's after us," Clint cut him off. "We cleaned 'em all out. But when we get back Coulson's gonna be having some words with logistics-- and so will I. I'd like to know how they failed to notice there was a massive forest fire in exactly the area where we _used to_ have a safehouse." He held the phone away from his ear as Sitwell's curses filled it.

"Are you both all right?" Natasha asked, over the litany of vituperation.

"Yeah, we're-- yeah." Clint had wandered over to check on his handler, whose nose was just poking out from the cocoon of an old trader's blanket. His face was calm, free of all the frustration and fatigue the botched farce of an op had etched into the corners of his eyes and mouth. "Now we are."

"What happened? Clint?" Clint watched Coulson for a moment longer, huddling further into the scratchy warmth of his own blanket. It tickled his bare shoulders and hips.

"It was kind of a shitshow, Nat," he said, turning away. "We made the objectives, got the marks out safely, but there were more than we thought and no room for us on the extraction flight. So, we went to Plan B and headed for the safehouse for the night. Except it was cinders, and our vehicle blew when we were half way back to the extraction point. Went through some thin ice." He didn't want to remember it, the crack of the ice behind them, the mad scramble to roll off the snowmobile, the way it had bobbed up once as it slipped into the dark water. The howl of the wind and the silence afterwards. The soft crunch of snow, endless expanses of it as day darkened into night and everything went numb. "We were lucky as fuck to find a cabin and break in."

"From your positioning, it looks like you're on an island," Sitwell said. Evidently he'd either run out of curses or was reserving a few for later. 

"Yeah that... that would make sense."

"How's your shelter? Adequate for a little?" Clint looked around him and laughed, a short, harsh sound.

"'Adequate,' yeah I guess you could say that. It'll keep us alive. Why?"

"Most of our coverage up there got pulled to deal with unexpected clean-up from your op; some of the intelligence you two sent back linked up with that sting Agent Carter was working on. She's taken half the resources in the territory over to Winnipeg. It's big, Clint. We think we can get the whole ring plus a couple corrupt pols who've been protecting them. Just trying to figure out options. If you trust the ice enough to hike it out, it'll be a lot easier."

Clint had collapsed into a little armchair as Natasha filled him in, and was lazily poking at the fire in the small pot-bellied stove as he considered _his_ options. He was very proud of that fire; it had come at a considerable sacrifice. His boxers were drying on top of the stove, creased and stiff now that all of the snow had melted. 

"It's not the ice itself," he said slowly, rolling the words on his tongue. "It's Coulson. He went through it. Took most of the night to get him warmed up and dry." Sitwell hissed in sudden apprehension, and he hastened on. "It's okay, now. There's a shit ton of old blankets in here, and I was able to get a fire going. He's fine. Just sleeping. But he's, um, he's pretty exhausted. I don't know if I'd trust him that far." Clint was moving as he spoke, instinctively finding a more private spot to continue the conversation.

"Are you sure? If you need medical treatment now, we'll find a way-- maybe a helicopter?"

"No, no-- he's good now. He'll be fine. Really. I ah," Clint felt himself blushing, and suddenly had to loosen the blanket around him. "I made sure he got warm. You know-- body heat and everything." He thought he heard Natasha sigh in the background as Sitwell laughed.

"You're not exactly the first SHIELD agent to have to get naked next to an icicle, Barton. Hell, Coulson had to do that for me once back in '99, in Greenland. He's never let me forget it, either, so it's about damn time it was his turn. Don't you let him forget he owes you. Milk it for all it's worth."

"I'll consider that an order," Clint said, hoping his voice didn't sound quite as unsupported as it felt. He was pretty damn sure _he_ was never going to forget it, anyway. And that could be a, well, it could be a considerable complication. 

"Do you have food, Clint?" Natasha cut in. "Water? How are you set for rations? You're going to need to get something into him."

"Yeah, I know, already on it. He's gotten plenty of fluids. We're fine. We managed to salvage the emergency packs from the snowmobile-- they're not as well stocked as I'd have liked, but we'll make do. Got the sat phone working this morning, as you can tell since I'm talking to you. We've got MREs. I can always melt snow for more water; there is so much frickin' snow you wouldn't believe. Chest high on the windward side of the place."

"I'm from Russia, what part of that would I not believe? So it'll need to be helicopter lift, basically."

"No, I-- give us a day. There are snowshoes. We can get out on our own tomorrow. Coulson would kill us all if you diverted a helicopter from Carter's op and those fucking bastards got away. It wasn't pretty, Nat. Tell Carter not to be gentle, huh?"

"I can guarantee you that," Natasha told him, and her voice was hard. "We all saw the feed from the cages. But if we don't send a chopper now, we may not be able to send one for a few days. The radar isn't looking good."

"Isn't it?" Clint asked, sitting up straighter. "Like, storm coming in?"

"Yea-ah," Sitwell said, drawing it out. "It's hard to tell whether it'll miss or go right over you, but we can't guarantee anything. So if you need out, now's--" he broke off suddenly, and Clint thought he heard whispering over the line. And the creak of floorboards just behind him. 

He looked over his shoulder, to find Agent Phil Coulson hovering behind him, two large blue tin mugs in his hands. The mugs were steaming, and the wisps were drifting up through the generous scattering of chest hair on Coulson's broad, freckled.... Clint's gaze followed the steam up to his handler's angular face, the hint of a smile there as perfectly crooked as his nose. He tried to lock his eyes on those light ones with their tiny little crinkles, but the traitors dropped back down, all the way to the precisely folded blanket that hung low on the bones of his hips. When his eyes met Coulson's again, they'd darkened to match the mugs.

Clint gulped, hoping it wasn't too noticeable, and remembered the way those eyes had fluttered closed last night, when Clint had finally worked the door to the cabin open and the sheer weight of Coulson's relief had sent his entire body sagging. 

"I understand," Clint said firmly into the phone, turning away from Coulson's gaze and standing up. "We can wait it out. We'll be in contact at the normal intervals. Just give 'em hell for us. Barton out." He ended the call and turned around, twisting the satellite phone between his hands and shrugging his shoulders back as he smiled at his handler.

"Sounds like we're stuck for a while?" Coulson asked in his mild voice. He handed Clint one of the mugs as he did so, and Clint found himself nearly sobbing as he caught the scent of it.

"Oh, _God_ ," he managed, staring down at it in awe. "That is _not_ Folger's, sir."

"I can't fault whoever stocked the pantry," Coulson said, his voice a little rough. Clint sniffed again, and blinked watering eyes.

"Or the liquor cabinet. Irish coffee? Be careful, sir. Do you really want me to get used to being spoiled like this?" He said it lightly, to cover the sudden sense memory from last night of the full-body shiver that had run through him as Coulson had pulled down the thick glass bottle of tawny liquid, his eyes locked on Clint's with the smirk of a transgressing teen. 

"Technically, you don't make irish coffee with Kentucky bourbon," Coulson's voice brought him back to the present. The man was staring into his own mug. "And cream is considered necessary. But I find I really don't care."

"Well," Clint said, keeping his voice light with real effort, "Beggers can't be choosers. Just look at this heap," he waved the mug around as he spoke, indicating the little room with its rag rug and tiny stove.

"We could always go to the living room," Coulson told him. Clint pretended to consider this for a moment as he rearranged the blanket more tightly around himself, and nodded.  
He let Coulson lead the way, noting as he did that the man made no move to re-adjust his own blanket, and that was going to drive him crazy, especially if it slipped any further. The dimples at the small of his back were already enough to make Clint come to attention and-- oops. Thank god for thick blankets.

" _Oh_ ," Clint sighed as he stepped off the last step and down into the living room. "You got the furnace going." Waves of heat radiated from the floor, curling around his toes and up under the blanket. 

"Sure I did; it's wood burning. I stocked it last night, while you were bringing wood in from the shed. It just doesn't do much for the upstairs." He was watching Clint closely, a small smile plastered on his face, and Clint laughed. Yes, getting snow in every crevice of his body, burrowing his way through drifts to the woodshed, had definitely been worth it in the end. 

The sunlight warmed his face, neck, ears-- or maybe that was his own blood, rushing to them. He sat down with a sigh on the wide leather sofa and stared off through the two-story windows, watching the wind play through tamarack branches and blow across the lake. He felt Coulson-- oh, who was he kidding, he felt _Phil_ \-- settle in near him and throw an arm over the back of the couch. So very close.

They sipped their coffee in silence for a long moment, settling into the peace of the morning. 

_It had been maybe their second op as asset and handler when Clint had woken in the early hours, his sleep as horrible as always, and come out to the balcony of their hotel in Nairobi to find Coulson sitting there. He cradled a little cup of coffee in one hand and a saucer in the other. He was still in shirtsleeves, collar open against the sun-kissed throat, and he was watching the pedestrian traffic below with a faint smile. The sweet scent of burning trash mingled with bougainvillea and lantana in the air. Clint had seen the quirk of his handler’s impassive lips as he watched a man on the street relieve himself against a chain-link fence. And he fell just a little in love, right there. The casual way Coulson had proffered a cup and gestured to the coffee pot, without bothering to turn, hadn’t hurt either._

The little spark of interest that had stirred in the hot Kenyan morning years ago had grown then ebbed and finally settled into a low enduring glow in the coals as time and early morning coffee sessions passed, but last night.... Clint shifted a little, uncomfortably, remembering how he'd watched Phil peel layers of matted, soaked clothing off himself, shifting down to skin that was golden in the light of the oil lamps. Last night he’d gone up in _flames_ , and he was hoping.... It had been such a strange night, such a surreal chain of events, but if he could only hold on--

“What did Sitwell and Romanov have to say?” Phil broke into Clint's thoughts, which was probably lucky given how much the wool blanket was starting to chafe at certain very responsive areas of his anatomy. Clint coughed and turned back to him.

"The op itself might have been royally fucked, but apparently our intel helped Carter with whatever she's been doing in Winnipeg. So she returned the favor by drawing off all available helicopter evac units. Unless you want to snowshoe out to an extraction point, we're stuck for a little." 

"Why couldn't we snowshoe out?" Phil's voice held nothing more than mild interest, and Clint wasn't going to look him in the eyes.

"I told them you were pretty exhausted. You _did_ fall into a frozen lake, after all. We're lucky you didn't die of hypothermia."

"I did not _fall_ into a lake, Agent Barton." The outrage tinging Phil's voice made Clint glance up.

"Well," he said, " _jump_ then. I assumed it was because you were already delirious."

"It's a Finnish sauna, that's what you _do_!" Phil protested. Clint abruptly looked away again, because oh God, oh _God_ , there was one memory from last night that he was going to take to his grave. 

_Phil, naked as a jaybird, flushed, and slick with sweat, unfolding himself from the wood bench of the little sauna they'd discovered next to the furnace in the cabin's lower level. The brush of his fingers and the curve of his lips as he opened the door and streaked down the narrow path through the snow until he reached the end of the dock. The creak and splash breaking the stillness as he leapt through a hole in the ice and disappeared into dark water. Clint's heart had stopped for a long moment until his head bobbed back up and he found the handrails on the edges of the dock._

"But it's all right," Clint assured him, hurrying on. "They'll be able to get us a lift out in a few days, once the weather clears. We just have to hang on 'till then."

"We do, do we?" Phil's voice was slow, considering, and Clint tensed a little. He was reluctant to look back, to see what he would find on the man's face. There were many kinds of understanding, he'd seen most of them on that face over the years, and there was only one he wanted to see right now. "I suppose we'll survive," he said at length, and Clint let his shoulders relax.

"That's what I said," he agreed. "We had our MREs, some blankets, and a wood stove, and we'd make it."

"Oh, that's your story, eh?"

"And I'm sticking to it."

"And I suppose I was so cold after my unfortunate encounter with the lake that you had to keep me warm with body heat?"

"Sitwell mentioned you'd done the same to him in Greenland," Clint said into his mug. "Should I be jealous, sir?"

"That depends on whether you have the hots for Agent Sitwell's bubble butt, I suppose." Phil drawled, and Clint... Clint inhaled coffee-alcohol vapor and choked.

"A little too hairy for my tastes," he managed after a moment, and Phil laughed. It wasn't quite the laugh Clint wanted him to be making under the circumstances. It sounded just a touch-- just the tiniest touch-- hysterical. 

"What's so funny, boss?" Even though he wasn’t sure _funny_ was the right word.

"Nothing. You. Me, maybe. Trapped in this little shack in the wilderness." He waved an idle hand around, indicating the elaborate stone fireplace with its framed oil painting of voyageurs navigating a rapids. Clint followed his gesture around the living room, golden in the bright sunlight, and noted the too-small-by-half pile of gear by the door, the trail of outerwear that led down the staircase to the sauna, the raided liquor cabinet. He grimaced. 

"Would you make a different call in the light of day? Should we have tried to minimize the disruption last night?" 

_They’d nearly fallen over each other into the still blackness of the cabin, snow tumbling about their feet, well past the end of their strength and mostly hanging on to each other so neither could just fall back and disappear into a snowdrift forever._

_Clint would have cried in relief had his tear ducts not been mostly frozen, as he saw the whole thing, two story windows and all, laid out before them in the low moonlight that poured in the doorway. Phil's half-muffled moan beside him had startled him, and when he'd looked over their eyes had met in the half-dark._

"No, _God_ no, no regrets. You?" Phil responded. Clint finally looked over his shoulder, only to pivot entirely when he saw the uncertainty etched in the corner of Phil's eyes.

Uncertain was not a look that should exist in the repertoire of Agent Phillip J. Coulson, professional badass. It was _definitely_ not a look that should be directed at Clint now, this morning, on a leather couch in an isolated cabin-mansion thing on the shore of a little fir-covered island at the edge of the world. 

Clint decided that he had, perhaps, been a bit of an idiot. That tiptoeing around things _now_ was just a little absurd. That _talking_ was clearly a stupid idea, and fuck it: if it came down to it Phil dismissive was better than Phil confused.

He set his coffee down gently on the high table behind the couch and leaned forward, letting the blanket slip off his shoulders as he reached. Phil watched Clint's hand until it brushed his knee, feather-light. And then he looked up, and oh yes yes _there_ , there was the curl of his real smile, there was the callous on his palm as he laid it over Clint's fingers.

"Why, Mr. Barton, are you trying to seduce me?" 

"I'd been hoping I wouldn't have to," Clint replied, letting his own grin show, "not after you did such a thorough job yourself last night."

"When I seduce a man, I like him to stay seduced," Phil agreed happily, and set his own coffee mug down. "I just wasn't sure what that was for you, if you had managed to..." he trailed off, waving a hand. 

"Fuck you out of my system?" Clint took pity on him. "God no, si-- Phil. Kinda the reverse. But it's okay, I wasn't sure either. If it was just a one-shot deal for you, I mean. I just... figured I'd leave us the opening."

And if Phil hadn't wanted to take that opening, Clint would at least have had last night seared into his mind forever.

_Phil, rising from the black waters into the moonlight, stalking up the dock as Clint finished cooling himself off in a snowbank. The Milky Way was a bright streak behind him as he came towards Clint, his eyes dark, his lips set, his chest hair sending rivulets of water down his hips, disappearing into the nest of dark curls between those long, confident legs._

_Clint knew he was standing open-mouthed, knew it because the air was biting at his tongue._

_He saw the moment Phil realized what he was seeing on Clint's face. He saw, too, exactly what twitched in reaction. Phil's gaze roaming his body made the blood shift and flow under his skin, rushing to his cheeks, chest, and there was no wind cold enough to stop it traveling further down. He could see heat bloom in Phil, from the intent set of his jaw to the sudden shudder of his chest. His hands clenched at his sides, his stride loosened and... well. Considering he'd just been immersed in nearly frozen water, that was certainly not supposed to be happening. But it was, and it was causing an answering stirring in Clint. He couldn't drag his eyes off Phil, off the way Phil drank him in. It was like some kind of arousal feedback loop had been established between them, and there was nowhere, no way to hide. And God help him Clint didn't want to._

_He held out his hand as Phil closed the distance between them._

He didn't want to hide this morning, either. Not now that they'd both established that what had happened last night, after they'd fallen hand-in-hand onto cool sheets in a dark room at the top of the stairs, was something they both wanted-- badly-- to repeat. 

Clint shifted, the hand on Phil's knee taking his weight as he leaned forward and cupped his fingers around the nape of Phil's neck with the other. The blanket gave up trying and slid off his ass into a pool on the sofa. Clint wasn't so much paying attention anymore, because Phil had lifted his chin and his lips met Clint's halfway. The kiss was sweet for just the barest moment before it turned filthy, and Clint tasted bourbon and coffee and _Phil_ on his tongue. 

He pressed Phil back into the high arm of the couch, dug into his shoulders with his fingernails as he transferred his lips to neck, clavicle, nipple, and nuzzled into the thatch of chest hair, leaving warm wet traces behind. The sound Phil let out was a sob of pure gratitude and relief, and Clint? Any intention he'd had to move slowly disappeared in that moment.

He surged upwards to capture Phil's lips with his own again, pinning him down with the entire length of his body and grinding hard as he dropped his hands to Phil's flanks. Phil wrapped his arms around Clint's shoulders and pressed his hips up, and Clint whined into his mouth as the wool of the blanket between them molded to his front and chafed. The press of Phil's erection beneath it was just enough to torture, and something clearly had to be done.

Clint gave one last whole body grind, then sprang away to nuzzle frantically all down Phil's sides, feeling him leap and shudder. He tore the blanket open as Phil squirmed, yanked it out from beneath his ass as a nip to his pelvis made him buck desperately. Settled his hands on Phil's hips, slid to his knees on the floor, and took a deep breath.

Coffee and bourbon on an empty stomach, Clint had a moment to realize, were going to limit his capabilities. But Phil was practically vibrating with anticipation, and the need to have him in his mouth was overwhelming. Clint licked once at the very tip of his head, rolled his teeth against it, and drew away with salt on his tongue.

"Clint--" Phil's breath caught as his entire body stiffened. It wasn't his stomach that knotted at the sound, so Clint stopped delaying. He leaned back in, slipped Phil's head into his mouth, and swallowed him down in one motion, till his nose was buried in crispy tight curls.

" _Clint_." It was a shout, and Phil latched onto his shoulders as his entire body attempted to curl up around the focal point of his cock and Clint's tongue. The tickle of Phil's thighs against his cheek and the hot earthy scent of skin and sweat addled his brain. He drew back, tickling with his tongue as he did, shifted his hands so they held Phil's thighs open and his thumbnails dug pleasantly into the thatch of hair, and set about seeing just how many ways he could get Phil to scream his name.

He sucked, he twisted, he nipped, he hummed as Phil writhed above him. The hardwood hurt his knees and heat curled up from the radiant flooring, snaking up his thighs and adding to the increasingly heavy feeling in his groin. 

In the morning light he could see Phil's every freckle and scar. Feel Phil's sweat drip onto his nose, jump when a hangnail scraped along his back as Phil clawed at him. And he didn't care. 

Last night had been entirely dreamlike, as they had rutted against each other under a skylight filled with night. It still felt like an incredible hallucination, brought on by exhaustion, steam, snow, starlight and bourbon. This morning was _real_ , from the salty tickle against his palate as Phil thrust helplessly to the high-pitched gasp he drew from Phil as he deep-throated him. 

Through it all, Phil chanted his name like an invocation, a curse, a benediction. High-pitched, low growl, drawn-out, bitten off. 

"Clint. _Clint_. Clint... Clint, ClintClintClintClint _Clint. Oh, God, Clint_ \--" Clint whined through his nose, sucking hard on Phil's cock as he whipped one hand down to his own, its aching too urgent to ignore any longer. 

" _Clint_ ," Phil twisted and went impossibly hard, throbbed once against Clint's tongue. "I can't-- need to--" Clint wrapped his fingers firmly around the base of Phil's cock and pulled back a little as he came, stroking down the shaft and swallowing as each pulse burst salty onto his tongue. 

It seemed like an age before Phil flopped back, boneless. Clint nestled his cheek into the interior of Phil's thigh and began to stroke himself, licking the corners of his mouth and trying to regain his breath even while his hand was trying to drive it away. He felt Phil shift against him.

"No, Clint, no-- just, give me a minute and I'll...." Clint tried to laugh, but it came out a sob.

"'S alright, Phil. Too close. Next time-- _oh_!" The back of his head hit the floor sharply as Phil tackled him down. His hand was dragged off his cock, and Phil pinned his wrists as he panted down at him. His eyes were blown so wide still that Clint was sure he must seem out of focus.

"Not waiting," Phil said in an airless pleasant little voice utterly at odds with the heat of his gaze. "Stay." He patted Clint's wrists after releasing them, then disappeared from his field of vision.

Clint felt his calloused thumb brush his cock, and moaned. Above him, a ceiling fan with cedar blades gleamed redly in the sun, and he tried to focus there, where half-hewn log beams met at the apex of a high ceiling, desperate to have something outside the urgency of his need so that he could last just a heartbeat longer. He reached out against the floor, scrambling madly for purchase, as Phil's hand and then tongue began to flick against him, exploring him thoroughly. He felt himself groan Phil's name as his back arched, driving his shoulder blades into the sleek wood. Sunlight drifted across the open staircase behind them, dust motes dancing in the shaft of light. Phil's fingers skittered down his cock and ringed the base.

He was entirely enveloped now, and Phil was taking Clint’s warning seriously; he used no art, just a primal rhythm to the bob of his head, and that was going to be quite enough, thank you, to drive Clint over the--

" _Fuck, Phil! Gah!_ " His entire body shattered as Phil pressed that calloused thumb to the smooth hollow behind his balls, and he was coming without any other warning. Phil held on and bucked with him until he collapsed, drained.

"Hmm," Phil said after a moment, and rolled over onto his back, head pillowed against Clint's pelvis. 

"That... um... yeah. Wow." Clint said after a while, and was rewarded with a pat on his calf. Phil seemed quite content to stay where he was, watching the ceiling fan and waggling his feet in companionable silence. Eventually he chuckled to himself, and Clint reached down to brush damp hair from his forehead. 

Phil looked a little blitzed still, but mostly just relaxed and satisfied, and that was about the best thing ever by Clint's estimation, because it was so seldom he looked _anything_ when they were in the field or at work. Even getting to see him look _tired_ was a privilege, and between this and the near overdose of skin-to-skin contact (and the orgasms, good god the orgasms), Clint felt like he was drunk.

That still might be the bourbon. They should really start exploring the pantry one of these minutes. He was sure he'd seen one of those cans of for-real-from-Ireland steel cut oats in there last night. 

Phil didn't appear to be thinking about food. His wandering eye had landed on the books stacked neatly in a basket by the couch, and he sat up and reached over to run an idle finger down the spines. He emitted a shocked, satisfied little grunt and pulled out a book. He nestled further into Clint's hip and started to flip through it. Clint caught his breath at the sudden wave of tenderness that shot through him. 

"Breakfast?" he croaked, trying to cover. Phil looked back at him and bonked him on the head, gently, with the book's spine. 

"Yes, then some time to relax, I think, before we need to check in again with SHIELD. We may as well make the most of the time we have." He stood up and stretched, taking his time about it, articulating every joint.

It was very close to what he'd said last night. _We'll never be able to hide our presence, so we may as well make the most of it._ Clint eyed the book, and raised an eyebrow.

" _Desolation Island_? Boss, if you're planning on re-reading even half that series, we may never get out of here."

"You in any particular hurry?" Phil called over his back, already halfway into the kitchen and not having bothered to replace his blanket. Clint watched him until his ass disappeared behind the granite-topped kitchen island.

"Not if you aren't," he said, and pulled his coffee back to him with a grin.  
_______

"So you're saying you won't be able to get to the extraction point on your own tomorrow either? Are you okay, sir?" Sitwell asked, drumming his fingertips against the counter impatiently and pressing the headset closer to his ear. Coulson's voice sounded distant as he responded.

"Never better. Unfortunately, Agent Barton twisted his ankle this afternoon while he was out searching for wood--" here Clint made some kind of muffled, choking protest in the background "-- for the fire, and we think it would be best if he kept off his feet until the swelling goes down."

"Okay, well, we can-- ow!" Natasha elbowed him in the ribs, and Sitwell looked over at the radar screen she was pointing at. Emphatically. With a glare. "We can only hope the storm passes quickly, because we're not going to be able to get you a helicopter today. Or likely tomorrow," he added as she threatened a renewed jab. Coulson sighed.

"As much as I'd like to get us back home, waiting seems to be the prudent option. Don't worry about us; this place is better stocked than we expected. Should be enough to last us a few days, anyway." Natasha pulled her own headset down and added:

"Good luck, sir. Everything's under control on this end; Agent Carter's op went off well, and as long as you're stuck out there you don't have to be involved in the clean-up. Try and think of it as a vacation, and keep Clint from going stir-crazy."

"I'll do my best to muddle through, Agent Romanov," either the satellite phone was extra tinny, or Coulson had just achieved new heights in deadpan. They signed off shortly thereafter, and Sitwell spun to face Natasha.

"This hunch of yours had better pay off, and they'd better actually be all right." he said. "Because they're bound to notice eventually that there's _no storm_ coming."

"Of course there is," Natasha said, pointing at the large blob on the radar. "And it's... near them. Enough. The weather can be so unpredictable up there at this time of year. We wouldn't want to take any chances. This is it, I can feel it." 

"That's what you said when they pulled this shit in Minorca, and yet, here we still are."

"I didn't realize that there were championship archery trials there at the time, or that Coulson had a thing for historical naval bases. This time they're trapped in a shack in the middle of a lake; they're going to _have_ to stick very close to each other. It's inevitable, if we buy them enough time." Sitwell sighed, and looked at the little blob on the radar, which still looked to him like it was going to sweep a good twenty miles south of the isolated spot on a lonely lake.

"That's a pretty nasty weather system, might even stretch to three days."

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> So, yes, my cabin fic with porn turned into a fic with cabin porn, as well.
> 
> No regrets. Well... except that I don't have a finnish sauna to call my own. That, I regret.


End file.
